Chapter Thirty-Five
In which Luna Meets the Family.
Luna…
Three days later…
“That’s a sad face.” Kurt leans against the doorway to the living room, studying me.
“Hey.” I can’t call him “uncle” yet. “Just thinking about home.”
“You don’t want to go back to Iowa, do you?” He’s laughing, not particularly kindly, more like he thinks I’m an idiot.
I realize I’d been thinking of Glasgow and the boisterous MacTavish clan. Of my husband. Looking down at my wedding ring, I feel a surge of homesickness. I’ve never felt that way before, there wasn’t much in Iowa to miss once Mom and Pop were gone. But now I get it; there’s a surge inside me, pulling at me. I ache for the people who made a place for me.
Absently circling my wedding ring around my finger, I shrug and smile politely. “Iowa has its charms.”
Kurt is my least favorite of my new family. When Collin held a big dinner at one of the restaurants the Harris family owns in Napa Valley, most of them greeted me with polite disinterest or outright suspicion
All the senior members, Collin’s brothers Malcom, Jonathan, and Lucas,showed up with their wives - or mistresses - nodded to me during the introductions, and then ignored me for the rest of the meal.
A couple of the female cousins asked a few questions about my life and fawned over my wedding ring. I asked about their interests, trying to get to know them a little better, but they took one look at Malcolm, the old man in charge, and shut up, turning to gossip between them.
I get it. A big Mafia family… new relative shows up out of nowhere. Of course, it looks sketchy. Unfortunately, Kurt goes in the other direction, being overly attentive. He’s told Collin that he’d “babysit” me when my grandfather goes out on family business. Politely arguing that I’m twenty-six and don’t need a babysitter seems irrelevant.
The creepy fuck does not give off ‘uncle’ vibes. I’ve been getting my cardio in by making sure I move from one place to another on the estate to keep away from him.
There are plenty of places to hide. Collin has a small vineyard on his property where he produces small batches of what he likes to call “the house wine.” His “humble” house wine won three different international awards, which hang on the wall in his tasting room.
The tasting room is actually a beautiful little brick and slate cottage and my favorite place on the estate. The warmth of the exposed brick walls and the shining, wide-plank wooden floors make it feel much more comfortable than his enormous mansion, with all that priceless artwork and horrendously fragile antique furniture. It is constantly cold in that house, even with the warm California weather. I sneak into the tasting room a lot with a book and sit by a sunny window. The workers don’t seem to mind.
Collin took me on a tour the day after I flew into California, and we lounged in the tasting room as I sipped from multiple glasses, each vintage tasting better than the last. He instructed me on things like “tannins” and the “smoky notes from the schist in the soil,” which I understood even less than nuclear physics or why I can’t pull off high-waisted jeans without looking like a mom heading to the grocery store.
“Why don’t you go into winemaking full-time?” I asked, smiling at his enthusiasm. “Surely, you’ve done enough for the Harris family business. It’s so clear that you love everything about the process here.”
His smile faded as he pulled up his shirt sleeve. The tattoo there has faded over time, but the lettering is clear. “Born into blood for life and into death.”
“Wow,” I said awkwardly. “That sounds more like a wedding vow.”
“The family is always first,” he said, rolling his shirt sleeve down and buttoning the cuff. “Above marriage. Above children.” He chuckled, but his heart was not in it. “Certainly above hobbies like winemaking.”
Knowing I was treading on dangerous ground but doing it anyway, I asked, “If you weren’t a Harris, what would you have chosen to do with your life?”
He gestures around the room. “This. Or a simple job, something non-demanding so I could have spent more time with Caroline and the kids when they were young.”
I leaned against the shining walnut table. “That sounds nice. I can tell you love her very much.”
“I do.” His voice was choked, and he polished off his glass. “Ready to try the chardonnay?”
We spent the rest of the afternoon going through old family photos. He told me about the time my mother broke her leg after jumping off the pressing house roof as a dare. How he met Caroline, my grandmother. How proud he was that his sons were rising in the organization so quickly.
That was the best day.
After the “meet the family” dinner, everyone left me alone. Collin is knee-deep into some acquisition the family is pursuing, and I know just enough about the workings of crime families now to understand why I don’t see much of him.
Sloan and Catriona call repeatedly until I break down and answer the phone.
“Here I was thinking ya dropped us, cousin-in-law,” Cat scolds me.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk to me,” I admit.
“Fuck that!” Sloan is indignant. “You and Kai are married, remember? Even if you weren’t, we’re still your family. I understand wanting to know more about your grandfather, but you’re not getting rid of us.”
I miss them so much that I don’t point out that this marriage has an expiration date, and once the Aristocrats have been exploded into tiny pieces, there will be no reason for Kai’s protection. I’m weak enough to want to pretend my life there could be permanent. That it’s real.
Instead, I ask, “Tell me everything that’s happening. What have I missed?”
Wandering through the tidy rows of vines, already heavy with plump clusters of grapes, I laugh about Uncle Lachlan bringing a surface-to-air missile to dinner at their grandparents’ mansion and that Logan’s car was torched by an angry ex-girlfriend.
“Oh, my good lord, tell me he wasn’t in it!”
“No,” Catriona says, “she’s from the Wallace clan. They’re all spoiled and wildly unpredictable. But even she wouldn’t try to fry up my cousin.”
“That is deeply troubling.”
“You’re forgetting the kind of family you married into?” Catriona laughs. “Speaking of which, how’s it going there? Did ya get a warm reception?”
“Collin held a nice family dinner at one of their restaurants here so I could meet the rest of the Harrises.”
“Was it The Crafted Table?” Sloan asks. “I’ve eaten there. The shrimp risotto was incredible. I’d heard that it was mafia-owned.”
“The very same. Most of them showed up, which was nice.” I kick a rock off the dirt path.
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here,” Cat says.
“They treated me like a curiosity,” I admit, “not surprising, I guess.”
“We didn’t treat you like a curiosity,” Sloan insists on pointing that out, though I had thought it to myself more than once.
“My grandfather - I still can’t bring myself to call him that in regular conversation - has been very kind. It’s been wonderful to hear stories about my mom.” I squint up at the blue sky. Two turkey vultures are lazily circling, riding the wind. “What about… the stuff?”
“Smooth,” Cat laughs before sobering. “The Aristocrats are still pushing for the highest bidder. That may be because the product is ready to go, or they’re stalling for more money.”
“What about attacks on the family? Have there been any more shootouts?”
“It’s been quiet,” Sloan says, “which is almost worse.”
“There you are.” Kurt is standing at the end of the row of vines, not quite blocking my path, though slipping past him would mean brushing up against him, and this is getting all kinds of uncomfortable. “Come on, Dad called, they want you over at the compound.”
It could be for something nice, right? Invited to the Harris ancestral home?
“Be right there!” I shout with a big, fake smile. “I’ve got to go,” I tell the girls. “Collin’s looking for me.”
“Before ya go,” Cat says hastily, “have ya spoken to Kai recently? He’s colder and much more irritating than usual, which means he’s not doing well.”
That lump in my throat turns into a boulder. “I haven’t. He hasn’t called me either.”
“The two of ya! For all our sakes, call your husband before he becomes unbearable.”
“Luna! Move your ass!” Looks like Kurt’s effort at being pleasant has expired.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll call… I’ll call tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s a promise,” Sloan says, “and we’re holding you to it.”
Hurrying toward the end of the row, I try to bypass Kurt, but the dickhead doesn’t move, forcing me to squeeze past him. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. This creep is supposed to be my uncle?
“Let’s go,” he says shortly, “you never want to keep them waiting.”
“Them?” I ask, “I thought you were taking me to see your dad?”
“You’re meeting with the Council,” he says, “hurry up.”